Genevieve hurried through the grassy courtyard of the low-rent complex. A freshly painted gray metal door stood slightly ajar at the top of three short steps. She didn’t look left or right but opened the door as though she was meant to be there. Gen bolted inside the east wing of the building, letting the heavy door catch on a wedge of gnarled wood. As nice as the neighborhood was, she didn’t want to be here past dusk.
The dim interior was quiet except for the low hum of old florescent fixtures and a Spanish music station behind the first apartment’s door. Her phone burst into song. The Clash’s “I Fought the Law.” It’d been her ringtone forever, and it’d never made her jump until now. She jerked the phone from the pocket of her olive slacks. After unfastening the small wallet case with a single credit card and driver’s license she hadn’t used in nearly a decade, Gen silenced the call and stared at Owen Graham’s name for a beat. Her gaze slid around the building’s dank interior. This wasn’t the place for a talk with her conscience, much less his. He was nearly the only man she knew who actually had an operational one.
She shoved the phone into the pocket of her slacks and turned right up the stairs. Gen ignored the blatant WTF stare of a full-figured woman with long, dark hair descending the last flight, found the second floor, and stopped in front of the door she sought.
The metal placard on door 2C had long since vanished. Several layers of paint had been slathered over and chipped off the space where it’d been. Black permanent marker announced the number. The unmistakable mumble of a soap opera drama filtered through the door. Gen drew a deep breath. She flapped the front of her ivory sweater and wished for a breeze. Heat radiated inside her crisp collared shirt, despite the cooler temperatures outside. She adjusted the floral printed cuffs, ignored the yearning for Owen Graham’s hands on her, and knocked.
A string of Spanish lambasted her from the other side. Not her, exactly, but the lazy ass who’d forgotten their keys again. Maria Baheya Sanchez wrenched the door wide without so much as a glance and stalked away through a small living room toward what Gen suspected was the kitchen. Maria further cursed her daughter, Rubia, for not showing up to bring Carlo to his other grandmother’s house like she said she would.
On the floor at the center of the living room sat a chubby-cheeked baby, kicking furiously at a pot lid. Each time he succeeded, the metal lid tilted and struck the empty pot. Carlo, Gen guessed, slobbered on a large wooden spoon. The baby caught sight of her before Maria and stopped mid-kick. Gen waved and offered the kid a smile. He screamed at the top of his lungs and broke into a string of sobs.
Kids. Ugh!
Maria rushed into the room with her arms wide for the child and a glare set for her daughter. The glare turned to wide-eyed shock.
Gen put her hands up and explained in stilted Spanish that she hadn’t intended to startle the child or her, and that she was just here to talk.
“Talk?” Maria snarled in plain English. She scooped the baby off the floor, held him to her full chest, and bounced him gently. “You people don’t talk. You tell me how horrible are my children. You want to take my children away from their children. You want to take them into prison forever.”
Honestly, her son belonged in prison forever or six feet under. The man was a monster. A mother’s love distorted views enough to blind a woman. From Maria’s own complaining, her daughter wasn’t doing a great job of caring for young Carlo either. But that wasn’t why she was here.
“I’m not here to bring trouble or take anyone away. I just want to find out the truth about where Edger was the night of the Carter murders.”
“The truth, you don’t believe.” She shook her head. Salted more than peppered hair swayed around Maria’s face. “Edger was home with me watching TV until midnight, and then he went to sleep.”
“We had testimony from Carlo’s other grandmother, stating that when she came by at 9:00 pm to drop him off, she stayed for approximately ten minutes, and never saw Edger or Rubia.” Gen pointed at the flat screen where a suave looking man and a beautiful woman stared intently at one another.
What bullshit.
“Do you have another television?”
“No, but we have a bathroom.” Maria glared. “And two bedrooms.”
“Was Edger in the bathroom when Carlo was being dropped off?”
“I don’t remember.” Maria patted the baby’s diapered bottom, set him back on the floor, and scooted his pot close. “That was months ago. Near to a year.”
“The next week, your son was brought in for questioning.”
“Yes, and then he was released.” Maria walked toward her. “And your boss was arrested for the murders.” The older woman grabbed the door and pushed it toward Gen’s face.
“Please wait!” She stuck out her arm and planted her hand. “I—” Sharp pain cut off her plea. The door struck with shocking force, jarring her fingers backward and rattling every bone in her hand. Gen hissed an expletive. “I don’t think your son committed the murders. I just need proof.” She shook her hand and held her breath. When nothing happened, she knocked on the door with her uninjured hand. “Please. I need your help.”
The rattle of a chain lock slid into place, punctuating Maria Sanchez’s answer.
Go fuck yourself, Genevieve.
She’d certainly have more success at it.
If Maria knew something that could save her son, why wouldn’t she say so? Maybe she had no idea where he’d been that night. Maybe she’d been telling the truth. Maybe she knew where he’d been and what he’d been doing, and maybe that would save him from one crime but incriminate him in another.
Gen scrolled through the possibilities as she shuffled down the steps toward the exit, shaking the sting out of her hand. A lady with a newborn and three toddlers spread out like unruly nesting dolls just outside the door. She wrestled with a large stroller, a diaper bag, two bags of groceries, and the door. Gen hurried forward and held the door wide. The woman sailed past with the baby and stroller without so much as a nod for Gen’s efforts. Two of the kids, the girls, tottered past in her wake, each carrying a juice pouch as big as their heads and screaming, “Abierto! Abierto!”
The biggest of the kids, who hardly reached Gen’s mid-thigh, the only boy, stalled at the threshold. His eyes were as big as balloons, and his gaze locked on her. She smiled and waved. He took a step back. When his mom hollered for him to come on, he slid along the far wall into the building as though she were a demon sent to reclaim his soul.
His tiny, well-worn shoe caught on the piece of wood holding the door open. His little arms pinwheeled. His brown eyes bloated in fear. Whether from her or the fall, she didn’t know.
The chunk of wood skittered down the hallway. His fat little legs churned in double time in an effort to catch himself. Gen reached out to catch his fall, and he shrieked high and loud. He pivoted his shoulder away from her. The move gave him the footing he needed to stabilize. His mother yelled again, and he ran past her and into a first-floor apartment in the middle of the hall.
Kids. Ugh!
Apparently, she was the first stark white redhead he’d ever seen. She should’ve said, “Boo!” A smile had just arched her lips when she stepped outside.
Movement caught her attention a second before something hard connected with her cheek.
Her eyes clamped shut. Light flashed behind her lids. Stars burst and danced in a chorus line. She staggered back and lifted her hands to protect her head and face. Unyielding brick caught her shoulders and stopped her from running. Not that she could. The unseen world whirred at Mach speed, even behind the darkness of her eyelids. Hair held tightly in a bobby-pinned knot atop her head shifted from the impact.
An angry, garbled string of Spanish assaulted her. It was a woman’s voice. The spicy Latina demanded to know what Gen was doing here. Only she didn’t call her by her name. She used words Gen didn’t know, and she thought she knew all the good curse words.
She needed to open her eyes. She needed to
see her attacker. She needed to get the hell away from the crazy bitch. Gen pried her lids apart by force of will, the will to live. Tears flooded her vision.
“You’re in the wrong neighborhood, Roja,” the woman hissed. It wasn’t the tone, but the nickname she used that clawed its way up Gen’s spine. It lashed its way into her brain and nested in her amygdala, overwhelming her flight instinct.
The outline of a rail thin woman with tangled raven hair slowly focused in her field of vision. She stood with one foot on the stoop and the other on the top step of the entryway.
“I thought my brother schooled you.” Rubia Sanchez spread her hands wide and bobbed her head. “Looks like you need a new lesson.” She jabbed a sharp, acrylic nail at the building at Gen’s back. “This ain’t your turf, Roja. This is mine.” Rubia slapped her talon against her chest.
Christ. As soon as the world stopped spinning, she could run. Until then, she needed to buy time. It was the first rule of self-defense. Actually, there were some things to remember before that, but the rules were all scrambled at the back of her brain. She swallowed, and a sob quaked her throat. This wild-eyed broad was scarier than her brother.
Buy time.
“I came to help.”
“Help?” Rubia laughed. She rushed forward and raised her fist.
Gen formed a shield with her left arm and hunkered down against the building.
Rubia’s fist connected to Gen’s shoulder with a smack. It radiated through her body, shaking her ribs and rocking her lungs. Breath froze inside her chest. Still, it had nothing on the first blow.
The woman stepped backward and laughed a maniacal chuckle. Three steps she’d seemingly forgotten tripped her, and she staggered back. Her thin arms hung limply by her side. Her hands weighed a thousand pounds. She shuffled to the side, clearly, now that Genevieve could see, high on something. But the woman didn’t fall.
Dread welled inside Gen’s chest. There were no guards here. No friends.
Gen’s gaze shot right. A dozen yards away, a six-foot-tall wrought-iron fence blocked her escape. Through its thin bars, she could see people strolling along the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street. Too far away to help. Besides, she was an outsider. If she screamed, would anyone help? More than likely, they’d gather around and cheer on Rubia.
Her gaze shot left. The door was two feet away. Rubia huffed and sneered maybe six, maybe seven feet in front of her. There was little chance she could make it inside before the woman caught her.
Talking had gotten her out of so many precarious situations. It was what she did best. She had no idea how to fight, so talking was her only option.
“I don’t think your brother killed Perry Carter’s family.”
“We told you that the first time you came nosing around. You and the cops. But you don’t listen. Nobody listens. You all want to talk, talk, talk.” The woman spread her thin arms wide. “Again, you’re here to talk. So what do you have to say, Roja?”
Gen’s back pocket vibrated. She couldn’t think enough to answer it or the question before Rubia barreled toward her. Both skeletal arms stretched toward the sky. An animalistic scream rumbled from the woman’s throat.
Anger and frustration that Gen stowed inside for days and weeks—hell, years—sprang free. Her own scream lit the sky, giving blood-red hues to the setting sunlight. Instinct took hold. Her arms cocked close to her body. She crouched low. Thick legs and her full ass churned slowly but fiercely, propelling her away from Rubia Sanchez.
Gen hurled toward the door. Her gaze locked on the silver handle. She reached for the only lifeline she had. The cold metal had never felt so good in her grip. Her thumb pressed the small flat lever and nothing. It didn’t budge.
She yanked.
The door remained. It might as well have been a castle wall. The metal barrier blocked the path of her only escape.
Her other hand formed a fist and banged furiously.
Once. Twice.
Hot tearing seared her scalp. Her hands immediately left the door and grabbed her skull.
Gen heard ripping a second before her head was jerked so hard it felt as though it was being disconnected from her body. The world upended. Red brick and gray sky filled her vision. Then everything turned to B-rated action flick with enough shaky cam to evacuate a theater. She hadn’t liked it in her twenties on the terrible excuse for a date. Now it incited a riot inside her.
Bile rose, stunning her nostrils. Pain and terror battled for top billing as she lay on her back at the bottom of the steps.
Gen watched helplessly as Rubia Sanchez stalked toward her.
The woman’s smile didn’t reach her sunken, hollow eyes.
Before today, Genevieve Holst considered herself a badass. A woman about the world. A woman ready to take on anything and everyone in the name of justice.
Today under attack, in imminent danger, she curled her legs to her chest, covered her face with her arms, and cowered like the wimp she was.
The blows came fast but not remarkably hard. They sounded like dull thuds as though they were far away and not impacting her ribs, arms, and head. The ugly Spanish Rubia showered upon her didn’t incite indignation or rage. Fear soaked her ego in kerosene and lit a match.
Somewhere a woman screamed. It had a horror movie quality. Non-human.
It took several seconds before Gen realized it was her screaming. She opened her eyes a crack and saw angry, bony fists flying at her time and again.
In that instant, she knew that if she stayed here cowering, she would die today.
She didn’t want to die.
She wanted answers. She wanted the truth. She wanted justice.
Gen cocked her stilettos toward the sky and shot her legs toward heaven with all the strength she possessed.
A gust of wind hit her in the face. The hot and rotten breath being kicked from Rubia’s lungs made her gag. The woman gurgled a second before she was launched backward. Her eyes filled with uncertainty. She flew through the air and landed hard against the brick exterior. Cartoon-like, she slumped into a heap on the concrete stoop.
Any thought of celebration washed away in the woman’s frantic scramble for her purse. The vibrantly woven sack hung across Rubia’s body. The thing hadn’t registered to Gen until this second. One bloody hand plunged inside the deep recesses.
A gun. A gun.
Of course, the daughter of a Mexican cartel leader would carry a weapon. Why hadn’t Gen thought of it until now? Why had she come here? What had she expected to accomplish?
It wasn’t a gun.
A gun would have been better. Quicker.
Rubia pulled a fixed-blade knife from her purse. Her scraped knuckles wrapped around the matte black handle. She yanked it from its sheath and threw the plastic to the ground. The small silver bevel of the three-inch blade sent shards of fear slashing through Gen’s soul, ribboning all hope.
The maniacal woman staggered to her feet.
Run. Run. Run.
She ordered her body to move, but nothing happened. Her gaze remained on the knife and the woman who would end her life without remorse. She shoved up to her elbows and wormed back mere inches, but the woman steadied her footing with each passing inch.
“Get up!”
The demand came from over Gen’s shoulder. The voice was deep and so familiar she wanted to cry.
“Get up!”
Heavy footfalls came hard and fast through the grass. The urgency in his voice and speed bolstered her.
Gen rolled onto her belly and shoved onto her hands and knees in time to see Owen Graham grab the top of the wrought-iron fence. He tossed his legs high and cleared it as though it required no effort. Heavy boots hit the ground. His legs barreled toward her. Lines of determination creased his brow and deepened a frown she’d seen only once before on the day the verdict was read in Perry’s favor.
Now that he was here, he could question Maria and Rubia Sanchez. Shit, he could take Rubia into custody for assault.
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Owen’s eyes widened.
“Run!” His demands turned into a singular plea.
No. That wasn’t right. Everything was okay. He was here. He was the police. The enforcer of the law. He was the help she needed to find the truth.
The panic in his eyes forced her from the ground. Her slick bottomed shoes churned on the concrete several times before gaining traction. Finally, they propelled her forward. She gained speed and ran, not toward Owen, but toward the open gate at the end of the sidewalk.
His gaze lifted over her. His right hand dropped to his side. Not his side, but a side arm concealed beneath an army green T-shirt. The uncertainty vanished in his eyes. Determination and intent filled the void. His head shook.
Gen ran past him. Her heart hammered against her chest. She neared the gate and slowed, unsure of where to go.
“Right.” Owen’s arm wrapped around her and swept her into the fast pace of his jog. They rounded the fence. He didn’t slow as they headed down the block across the street.
“Keep going,” he urged.
Her lungs burned. The muscles in her legs turned to veal. Still, she pushed.
Three cars down, she saw Owen’s black Land Rover. The lights blinked, and a few seconds later, he opened the passenger door and shoved her inside. He slammed the door in her face and nearly jumped the hood in his haste to get behind the wheel. Not a moment later, they were weaving in and out of 3rd Avenue traffic.
“Genevieve.” He growled her name.
She couldn’t tear her gaze from the road to look at him. They were going so fast. It was dangerous.
“If you ever set foot in this neighborhood again, I’ll arrest you myself.”
“You can’t threaten me.” Her mind reacted with her usual bravado, but her voice sounded small, broken.
Why (Stalker Series Book 2) Page 18
